Between the Burning | Poem

Between the Burning

All night Under the cold stars of autumn, I have been burning two stumps: Between the burning of the stumps, And the writing of poetry, I wonder if the stumps are burning, Or if I am burning them in my hands.

In my vigil hours, I wonder if God will come in sparks, Tonight, I wonder if there are angels in pine trees, And I wonder, Always, I am wondering, the way an old man will no longer crouch by the shore of a lake where many ducks are swimming, Instead he is content to just stand there and look. I wonder if a man can live and die between two stumps, Or is one better than the other?